


Demacia: The Duelist's Dance

by VastayanStoryteller (OpalliteGlass)



Series: Tales from Runeterra [1]
Category: League of Legends
Genre: Demacia, Dueling, F/M, Fencing, duel for honor, stories from demacia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-20 19:58:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21062333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalliteGlass/pseuds/VastayanStoryteller
Summary: Fiora has bested every suitor in battle, sometimes with a fatal end. Part 1 of the Demacia chapter of "Tales from Runeterra".





	Demacia: The Duelist's Dance

Fiora stood tall, proud, and radiant. She clutched the trophy in her right hand, a golden recreation of the Demacian Wings, framing a rapier, much like the one she had behind her back. Her back was ramrod stiff, he face set in a firm, professional manner. Her expression belied no emotion; to the outside observer, she would've seen rather bored with the raucous fanfare, the victorious applause, the flowers and ribbons streaming down on her from the ramparts. The truth was far different.

She was _ecstatic_. Her competition stood to her left and right, placing them below her on the 2nd and 3rd place pedestals. Eran Traven, heir to House Traven, placed second. His face was jubilant as he held his own trophy; a bouquet of sky-blue warlilies. He waved happily to a blonde woman in the first row of the audience, no doubt his betrothed that Fiora had been hearing so much about while they sparred.

To her left was Ulir Retan, the soon-to-be patriarch of House Retan. With his father in failing health, he had become accustomed to the glory and celebrity that came with being the leader of a Demacian House. Alas, Fiora cared not for his story. She bested him quickly and efficiently, humiliating him in front of his own company. His expression was one of anger, frustration, and embarrassment. Fiora always despised the way he held himself; slinking around in dark back-alley house deals like an unfixed tomcat. She made sure to strike quickly, not wanting her precious rapier to be sullied by his touch.

“Fiora, of House Laurent, is once again victorious!” Came the announcement, sending the audience into another wave of jubilation. “She remains undefeated for the twelfth time in a row!”

Hearing that made Fiora's face crack the smallest smile. Undefeated. Truly, there was no one in Valoran that was capable of besting her skill. Many times she had been courted, and every time she had rejected them. Her heart belonged only to the blade. The duelist's dance was the only one she partook in, and all suitors failed to match her in the ring. That, she had decided, was when she would take a betrothed. Only the one who could defeat her could have her hand in marriage.

She was sure that day would never come.

* * *

Garen slapped her on the back, the muscular man laughing uproariously. The inside of the pub was loud, crowded, and full of celebration. With Fiora's victory came another year of House Laurent being the economic head of Demacia, guranteeing another year of prosperity and good trade. The other houses, old and full of pedigree as they were, failed to grasp the subtelty of inter-regional negotiation and trade. Fiora and her family had made it their business to ensure Demacia was well-fortified in that regard, and it was a task most in the region knew only her blood could accomplish.

“It amazes me every time, Fiora!” Garen half-shouted, swinging his eight stein of Dragon's Ale through the air. Fiora expertly ducked it, smiling her trademark faint smirk, while Garen continued his slurred speech. “I've never seen anyone as good with a blade as you! How do you-” He stopped, burping quietly, murmured a quick, “_Excuse me,_” then continued, “How do you do it, Fiora? I've watched you since we were kids and I could never understand it!”

Fiora laughed quietly. Garen, the normally extremely proud and reserved head of the Dauntless Vanguard, Demacia's elite team of soldiers, only really let himself go when it came to Dragon's Ale. The popular (and powerful) variety of ale made even the most seasoned drinker loose their tongue, and Garen was known to have a particular fondness for it.

“Please, Crownguard, you're dirtying my uniform.” She teased, pushing the drunken man off of her as he leaned on her for support. “As for your question, well... it's a family secret.”

Garen laughed again, signaling to the bartender for another round with one hand and forcing the rest of his stein down his mouth with the other. “You always were so proud. With good reason, too!” He sighed wistfully, looking down at the empty dregs of his stein.

“You know, we could make Demacia proud. You and me. House Laurent and House Crownguard, united-”

Fiora cut him off with a light punch to the shoulder. “I keep telling you no, Garen!” She insisted, still playful and light. “And besides, you're drunk! It wouldn't even be a fair fight!”

Garen shrugged, his flushed face stretching into a mischievous grin. “Being bested by you is a reward in its own right.”

“What if little Lux saw you right now? And besides, I'm not ready to be an aunt!” She laughed this time, a rare sound. She had to admit, the Demacian soldier always held a soft spot in her heart. He was just as proud of his House as she was, always ready to lay his life on the line to protect his blood's honor. When Fiora dueled her father to the death to reclaim her House's pride, it was only Garen who truly understood. He offered not a shoulder to cry on; Fiora never cried. He instead gave her stability. Closure. He knew what it was like to have to slay one for the good of many.

“Lux is a big girl now, you know.” He replied, swiping the next stein from the bartender. “She's already in the espionage unit.”

“Are you sure she's safe?” Fiora asked. “She's so curious. Remember when she was eight? She tried to raise an entire family of raptors in her room.”

“She wanted to be a raptorknight.” Garen relented, pulling the stein from his face. “She'll be fine. She's... resourceful. Snuck right past the main guard during her test. And that's _never _happened.”

“Well, if you say so. Nobody in the Crownguard family has been anything less than exceptional.”

“Now _you're_ the one flattering _me_!” Garen laughed again.

But before Fiora could reply, the door to the pub burst open. The jubilation went silent, and Fiora whirled around to see what had interrupted her rare moment of celebration. It was Ulir Retan, his blonde hair hanging loosely in curls around his neck, his expression wild and fierce.

“Fiora Laurent!” He declared, pulling a rapier out from behind his back and causing the entire throng of partygoers to seperate amid hushed gasps and whispers. “I will not be bested by... by a housewife!” He roared, spittle spraying from his lips.

“A housewife?” Fiora replied, an amused purr entering her voice as she stood from the bar. “I assume your father hurt your feelings again, Ulir?”

“You will address me as Lord Retan! I am sick...” He stuttered, clearly overwhelmed with anger. “Sick of you making a mockery of my House!”

“I will not address you as anything other than Ulir until your father is in the ground.” She replied flatly. “Now, run along. You've spent enough time interrupting my victory. If you'd like to schedule a bout, feel free to-”

“No!” He interrupted, making Fiora's right eyebrow quirk in a display of annoyance. “My father will not let me claim Lordship until I have you as my betrothed!”

“Oh, dear.” Fiora chuckled. “Seems like poor old Dern has become senile with his old age.” She cleared her throat and stood up straight, seeking to intimidate Ulir into submission as she had with so many other suitors like him. “Just because I bested him, his son, and every one of his court, doesn't mean he can rescind Lordship. I will not be you or anyone else's... _housewife_.” She laced the final word with enough venom to kill a dragon. “I am quite comfortable being Lord Laurent. And you would do well to respect my title.” She narrowed her eyes dangerously, peering straight into his angry, panicked ones.

“A duel to the death then!” He declared. “If I win, you must take my hand or be slain by it!”

Now Fiora laughed in earnest, covering her mouth with her hand in an attempt to stifle her amusement. “Really, Ulir? To the death? You _must_ be joking. I will not be so cruel as to deny Dern his only heir when he himself is so near the end.” She sighed, catching her breath. “So foolish these boys are, Garen.”

The commander had stood next to her, an intimidating figure. He had done his best to sober up, although his grim determination was undermined by his swaying posture and flushed face.

“If you deny the duel, then you must accept my hand!” Ulir pressed on. “To do otherwise is not only an insult to my honor, but yours as well!” He jabbed an accusatory finger at her.

Her face contorted from amusement to stern disapproval.

“Ulir, what you are asking for is death. Rescind your declaration, _now_.”

“You refuse my duel?” Ulir jeered, turning to the uncomfortable crowd. “Let it be known that Fiora Laurent, the woman who slain her own father for treason, is afraid of being beaten by Ulir Retan!” He cocked a twisted smile at her. “And in doing so, accepts me as her betrothed.”

“I will do _no such thing_!” Fiora's voice pierced right through his, echoing in the closed space of the bar. “If you wish to die a fool, then so be it!” She grabbed her rapier from the bar. The blade was never far, and it was for occasions just like this.

The crowd began to murmur excitedly as they streamed out into the courtyard. “Fiora and Ulir are dueling!” She heard someone yell. “To the death!” Another added.

“Does Dern know his son is making a fool of his House?”

“Someone get the medics ready!”

Garen trailed behind Fiora speaking quietly into her ear. “You know what this means, don't you?” He asked, her gait long and measured. “You'll be dooming House Retan to extinction if you win.”

Fiora shot a poisonous gaze at him.

“_When_ you win.” He corrected himself.

“If all members of their House are as dumb as Ulir, I'll be doing them and Demacia as a whole a favor.” She hissed, watching Ulir prance proudly to the other end of the courtyard.

“Garen, officiate.” Fiora commanded. He wordlessly obeyed, standing between them.

Ulir brandished his rapier, swiping it with a flourish to his side before entering a crouching position with his blade outstretched. He was going for a lower angle, intending to catch her on her vulnerable side while she concentrated on his body.

Her eyes scanned him, taking in every little mistake, every possible point of attack. She had dueled him before. This would not take long.

The crowd fell silent as Fiora entered her own position. Tall, proud, her sword held aloft, the point coming just below her chin.

“Anything to say, Fiora?” Ulir spat, his grin splitting the entirety of his lower face.

“Prepare to die.” She replied, as casually as one would recount the weather.

“Begin!” Garen roared, stepping backwards as the two fencers began their dance.

Quickly, they closed the distance, Ulir sweeping his blade low, as Fiora predicted. She hopped upwards, her feet clearing the rapier, bringing her own blade to her side to parry the attack she knew was coming. A loud clang of the metal resounded through the courtyard.

“So prideful!” Ulir growled, swinging the rapier again. Fiora ducked, moving backwards to put space between them. “Are all Laurent woman to willfully vain?” He asked, although Fiora's expression remained one of bored indifference.

She didn't respond, simply flicking her wrist and deflecting another blow. Then another. Then another.

Ulir was sloppy. His strikes were brutish, uncoordinated. Hers were precise. Not a single movement was wasted. She hadn't even struck back yet. She was simply waiting for the right opportunity.

“I will have you as my betrothed, Fiora Laurent!” Ulir panted. “No one else is good enough for my father!” He swung downwards, bringing his blade towards Fiora's head.

Swiftly, she knocked it aside, sending Ulir reeling backwards, off-balance. Her opening had presented itself.

“How tragic.”

She lunged forward, driving her blade straight into Ulir chest and out the other side. He gasped, feeling the cold metal slide into his body. He collapsed onto the cobblestones, dropping his rapier to the ground as the audience began speaking their emotions, a mixture of tragedy and comedy.

His hands came up to grasp the blade the protruded from the front his chest, looking up into Fiora's cold, expressionless face. His chest cavity was beginning to fill with blood, and the world was going dark.

“Your father will have company.” Fiora said, pulling her blade out of Ulir's chest with a sickening sound. “Such a shame you had to arrive first.”

His face, a painting of shock, horror, and pain, fell as he realized what was happening. Then, he slumped forward, his body landing on the ground as blood began to pool around him.

“Someone alert House Retain!” Someone in the audience shouted. “And get the Vigilists! Ulir has been bested in a duel!”

Fiora swiped her blade to the side, cleaning the blood off of the petricite-based metal. It was too precious to be sullied by his fluids. “I'm sure I don't have to recount what happened.” She turned to the audience, who fell quiet again immediately. “I, Fiora Laurent, Lord of House Laurent, was challenged to a duel. I am victorious, as I always am.”

The crowd murmured their agreement, as if there was ever any doubt. “Now...” Fiora continued. “Let us resume our celebrating! Another round of Dragon's Ale, courtesy of House Laurent!”

The cheering resumed as the crowd rushed back into the pub, leaving Garen, Fiora, and the once-alive Ulir alone. “Go inside, Garen.” Fiora said quietly. “I'll be in in a moment.”

“Are you sure?” He asked. “Do you want me to be here when the Vigilists arrive?”

“No, I'm sure.” She replied. “I'll tell them what happened.”

He relented, resting a hand on her shoulder before turning and heading back into the pub. Only someone who could best Fiora could have her hand in marriage.

And Fiora was sure that day would never come.


End file.
